


The great prank war of 1818

by wolfinthethorns



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Emma Wintertowne had poor impulse control, Gen, Humor, John Childermass cannot let it go, Neck trauma mention, Pranks and Practical Jokes, but might be enough to be upsetting, but tragic relief is a thing, death of a parent mention, i promise this is humour honest, more an insinuation of something that looks like it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinthethorns/pseuds/wolfinthethorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set 18 months or so post canon, and on the assumption that Starecross Hall has become something of a base of operations for our heroes, who have all become friends, of sorts.</p><p>Shameless silliness in which a moment of mischief from Miss Wintertowne precipitates a battle of will and trickery with Mr Childermass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this two years ago, promptly had a bad case of real life, and forgot about it until I picked it up again recently. Consequently, it exists in a slightly different continuity stream to _With his long hair..._ , and _An Unkindness of Absence_ , and any other post-cannon works I write. However there is still overlap, because head-cannon.

One of the many things that vexed Miss Wintertowne about John Childermass was his capacity to make a room look untidy by simply being in it. It wasn’t so much his personal unkemptness as his habit of _leaning_ when stood, and _sprawling_ when sat; it seemed against his very nature to remain vertical for any length of time. Right this moment, he was _sprawled_ upon a sopha in the drawing room of Starecross, with his feet propped up on the arm of the furniture, engrossed in a book. To add insult to injury, he had kicked off his shoes, revealing a large hole in the foot of one of his stockings, displaying to the world a circle of pale sole, like a white full-moon against the dark fabric. It was putting Miss Wintertowne off her knitting. It was just _there_ , a little over arm’s length from where she sat, ever present in the corner of her eye. It chafed at her that no one else seemed to object to this deliberate act of slovenliness, and deliberate it must have been, for _surely_ he would have noticed the hole when he dressed this morning; knowing Mr Childermass, she supposed, he probably just shrugged to himself and carried on. Mr Segundus, however, was occupied on an essay for _The Famulus_ at the desk in the corner, and Mrs Strange, who had been sat beside Miss Wintertowne working on a watercolour, had pottered off in search of tea.

 

Miss Wintertowne was aware that she was not without her own flaws. Chief among these was that once the idea of an action had presented itself to her, however bad that idea was, she felt compelled to act upon it. _Especially_ if it was a bad idea. This was not a side-effect of her enchantment, she had been a nuisance since childhood, but her long periods of illness meant that many people had forgotten her mischievous tendencies. She took a long breath and put her mind to resisting the particular bad idea that had just occurred to her. To distract herself, she glanced over to see what book was holding Mr Childermass in such rapt attention; it was Mrs Shelley’s novel [1]. This was curious in itself, he had previously shewn a disdain for the Gothic genre, holding a particular dislike for Mrs Radcliffe; evidently Mr Segundus’ enthusiasm for the novel had piqued his curiosity. The bad idea was still there, insistent as the urge to cough in church. She tried to focus on her knitting, but the hole taunted her.

 

At that moment, perhaps by some unfelt breeze, or miniscule vibration, or even subtle magic done unconscious through force of emotion, one of Mrs Strange’s paint brushes chose to separate itself from its companions and roll towards the edge of the side table on which the art materials sat, to within reach of Miss Wintertowne. Now, unlike the company’s resident seer, Miss Wintertowne was not one for omens and portents, but this, surely, was a sign that some force, the Universe, the blessed Raven King himself, found her Bad Idea as amusing as she did, and she gave up any pretence of resistance. Dropping her knitting into her lap, she cautiously picked the paintbrush up, moving it to her hand nearest her unsuspecting victim. Mr Childermass appeared unaware of her motion, his dark eyes fixed upon a particularly engaging paragraph of the book. She reached out her hand, and very gently brushed the damp hairs across the exposed sole of his foot.

 

The result was more than she could have hoped for. Childermass yelped, and launched himself near vertically upwards, as if he himself had been galvanised [2]. Unfortunately, his ascent was only _near_ vertical; his descent missed the sopha in such a way that his hip clipped the edge of it, spinning him over mid air, so that he landed with a _whumph_ _,_ face down and a tangle of limbs. He leapt to his feet immediately, brushing himself down, his face a picture of shock and fury. Miss Wintertowne sat in surprized silence, her eyes wide and her hand clasped to her mouth. Their eyes met, and as it dawned on Childermass what had just happened, and he attempted to rearrange his expression into one of affronted dignity, Miss Wintertowne dissolved into hilarity. To her mind, he looked nothing in the world so much as like a cat that had just been witnessed falling off a fence, and was now trying to convince the onlooker that this action had been _entirely deliberate and premeditated_. Peals of laughter shook her, which served only to further his affrontedness, making her laugh harder yet.

 

The noise roused Mr Segundus from his studies; he grinned at Childermass, “Got to an exciting bit, then? Which chapter? I found myself particularly on the edge of my seat when…”, but his keenness cut off by Childermass shaking his head at him, rolling his eyes in frustration. Childermass pinched the bridge of his nose, and returned his attention, and ire, Miss Wintertowne, who was now now near prostrate with mirth. “You…” he growled, wagging an accusing finger at her, “I will _get_ you for that, be assured of it.” And with that, he picked up the fallen book, snapped it shut, and stalked out of the room.

 

With his retreat, Miss Wintertowne’s giggles subsided, and were replaced with the sinking feeling that yes, indeed, he would get his revenge. However, she noted, she still had his shoes…

  


[1] _Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus_ , 1818

[2] Electrocuted, to the modern reader


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Mr Childermass arrived at breakfast wearing his riding boots, and a sour countenance. Seeing his attire, Mrs Strange exclaimed “Oh dear, Mr Childermass, you’re not having to leave again so soon, I hope? What business takes you away this time?”

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable, Mrs Strange,” he replied, “but it seems I must wear my boots indoors after _someone_ thought it amusing to steal my shoes last night.” With this, he shot Miss Wintertowne an accusing glower.

Miss Wintertowne raised her eyebrows, “How odd, Mr Childermass, I’m quite sure I saw them in the drawing room after you’d retired,” she said, innocently, meeting his gaze, “Perhaps the faeries have taken them”, she added, with an ironical little smile.

“I do hope not,” said Mr Segundus, as he decapitated his boiled egg, “I spent all last month warding the house against them, I’d hate to think I’d not done it thoroughly.”

Mrs Strange gave an awkward little cough at the mention of faeries, it was not a subject she wanted to dwell on at this hour in the morning, “Now Miss Wintertowne, I’m sure the the answer is rather more mundane than that. Perhaps one of the servants tidied them away by mistake, I’ll ask Lucas to have a search for them. Now, would anyone care for tea?”

 

John Childermass was aware of his weaknesses, and chief among these was that he found it near impossible to concede defeat when it seemed someone had the upper hand on him. He was also, despite appearances, a proud man, and Miss Wintertowne’s escapades last night had sorely bruised his pride (and, for that matter, his hip). Unfortunately, awareness is rarely sufficient in the combating of such weaknesses, and the thought of pay-back was forefront of his mind. Miss Wintertowne’s attitude to him, since her return to Starecross and magical society, had been antagonistic. Perhaps, given his role in her ordeals, this was not entirely undeserved, but while he would accept her challenges in the theatre of magical practice, if she thought she could bring it into the domestic sphere she had another thing coming.

 

As he watched Miss Wintertowne stir two heaped spoons of sugar into her tea, a sly idea presented itself to him. All it would take was a little patience and some slight of hand. The small sugar bowl kept with the tea set was as simple, white porcelain affair, and he was quite certain that a double of it was kept in reserve in the crockery dresser [1]. Substituting one for the other without being seen to do so was well within his skill. Tho’ Childermass had a notoriously excellent poker face, perhaps in that unguarded moment a slight, wry, mischievous expression had flashed across his countenance, for when he next glanced in Miss Wintertowne’s direction, she was looking decidedly nervous.

 

He was courteous to Miss Wintertowne, for the rest of the day, though not deferential; too strong a divergence from his habitual manner would have given the game away. Rather, he took effort to give the appearance that the matter of the missing shoes was dropped, borrowing a spare pair from Davey [2], and commenting that his own had been rather worn and damaged, and perhaps he would go to York the next day to purchase replacements. At first, this did little to calm Miss Wintertowne’s nerves; at least twice did Mrs Strange shew concern that her friend was avoiding shadows, as if she expected something to jump out of them. However, by late afternoon, she seemed to have assumed victory. The company was summoned to the parlour by Mr Segundus; he and Mr Honeyfoot had an idea for reaching out to budding magicians across the country, and wished to discuss it over tea. Providing he could get past the watchful eye of Mrs Strange, Childermass thought, the timing was perfect.

 

Miss Wintertown was working on a review, decimating an article by a Norrellite rival in London, when tea was served. This suited Childermass well, as he had noted that both Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot took sugar in their tea; by allowing them to be served first, and the contents of the sugar bowl being completely as expected, made the prank all the… well… _sweeter_. He waited until all but himself and Miss Wintertowne had been served before helping himself. The others were distracted with conversation or writing; the slight of hand to substitute one sugar bowl for the the other was the easiest thing in the world.

 

Soon, Miss Wintertowne rose to join them on the sophas, pouring herself some tea, and stirring in two large, heaped, spoonfuls from the sugar bowl. She took a sip, and with a look of horror and disgust spat it straight back out again.

“Aurgh! Why in God's name is there _salt_ in the sugar bowl?!” she exclaimed. There was a moment of confused silence, before a snort and a hiccough of suppressed laughter bubbled up from Messrs Honeyfoot and Segundus. She rounded, furiously, on Mr Childermass, who was lounged on the sopha across from her, and wearing an insolent, self-satisfied smirk, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

“You bastard!” she cried, leaping to her feet. The air around her crackled dangerously, and there was a faint scent of thunderstorms, “You insufferable, petty, son of a…”

“Come, Miss Wintertowne,” Childermass interrupted, languidly, “I believe we are now even, are we not? Now, if you could return my shoes I’d be most grateful.”

This only served to rile Miss Wintertowne more, “Why, I’ve a good mind to…”

“Emma!” interjected Mrs Strange, firmly, “Calm yourself! _Did_ you hide Mr Childermass’s shoes?”

Miss Wintertowne slumped down back onto the sopha, “Yes,” she pouted, petulantly.

“Then perhaps you would be so good as to return them, and we shall have an end to this nonsense,” then Mrs Strange turned her attention on Childermass, “Though I must say, I’d have expected better from you, sir. Such childish pranks are quite beneath a man of your age and dignity.”

“I cannot argue with that,” replied Childermass, with a shrug, “though I am not sorry for doing it. I too hope this shall be the end of it.” Noting the venomous glare Miss Wintertown was aiming at him, he suspected it wouldn’t be, however.

 

When Childermass finally retired for the night, he discovered that his shoes had indeed been returned, placed neatly facing the bed. When he went to move them to a less inauspicious position [3], however, he discovered they had been firmly nailed to the floor. There was a note in one of them, in Miss Wintertowne’s sloping handwriting. What it _said_ was simply “2-1”; what it _meant_ was war.

  
  
  
  


[1] Though no longer a servant, Childermass still took an habitual and active interest in the running of the household, and stood in a curious grey-area between Upstairs and Downstairs. This suited him fine, it allowed him a flexibility of access unavailable to those who knew their place.

[2] While long enough in the toes, they were rather too wide, and this made the act of stealth needed to secure the second sugar bowl rather more difficult than it ought have been. Fortunately, Childermass was sufficiently adept in spells of invisibility that no one noticed to wonder why he was in his stocking feet, rummaging in the crockery dresser.

[3] It is considered ill-fortune in some parts of the country to have one’s shoes facing the bed while one sleeps, lest someone be standing in them when one awakes.


	3. Chapter 3

For some days, Mrs Strange lived in the peaceful assumption that the quarrel between her young friend and Mr Childermass had been laid to rest. No more had been said upon the subject, and the two had returned to their previous habit of largely ignoring each other. Indeed, Mr Childermass had largely absented himself from the house on one errand or another in York. Unfortunately for Mrs Strange, the quiet she assumed to be truce was merely the quiet before the storm, both figuratively and literally. A rainstorm of Biblical proportion set in not a week after the incident, rendering the road out of Starecross village a veritable river. Despite his usual imperviousness to rain, even Childermass was forced to concede that the way was impassable, and that it was unsafe to travel in such conditions. As the weather continued abominable, with not even the park to escape to, the inmates of Starecross Hall found themselves at closer quarters than ever. To Mrs Strange and Mr Segundus, this was quite agreeable, quite jolly even, for nothing pleased them more than a cosy evening before the fire with dear friends. Mr Segundus had gone so far to lament the fact that the Honeyfoots had not been visiting when the rain set in, for their presence would have made the party perfect. For the wilder, freer spirits of Miss Wintertowne and Mr Childermass, however, this imprisonment chaffed sorely upon their patience.

By the third day of rain, tempers were becoming frayed. Miss Wintertowne had developed quite the bee in her bonnet regarding Childermass's untidiness of person, and spared no opportunity to upbraid him on it. As to why she found his untidiness so intolerable, and yet seemed insensible to that of Vinculus, no one was entirely sure, but there it was. At first Childermass responded to her reprimands with ironically amused detachment, then with chilly sarcasm, until it seemed there was a limit to even his ability to remain sanguine in the face of insult. It came when Mr Segundus, struggling to untangle a length of silk cord he wished to use in a knot spell, exclaimed "Oh! Can someone with nails help me with this wretched thing? I'm afraid the tangles are too tight and I can't get a purchase on them," instinctively handing the mess across the desk to Childermass as he spoke. Before Childermass could accept the task, Miss Wintertowne had crossed the room the room and snatched away the cord, saying "I'll do it, Mr Segundus, I'm sure you don't want _his_ grubby paws on it, you don't know where they've been."

Childermass blanched, then reddened, and was on his feet, snatching back the cord just as Mr Segundus was stammering out that he was sure Miss Wintertowne was only joking. He loomed over Miss Wintertowne, snarling "Now listen, you hoity-toity, pampered little..." Miss Wintertowne shrank back, suddenly  very aware that despite their mutual antipathy, Childermass had previously been very careful not to stand over her like that. Mr Segundus was pleading Mr Childermass, please! John!, and as suddenly as Childermass's temper had flared, he seemed to come to his senses, slamming the cord onto the desk and hissing "...Oh forget it", before storming out of the room, his features pinched with disdain.

 

Childermass marched, furious, through the house to the back door, pointedly ignoring a "Whatever is the matter?" from Mrs Strange. The damp, cold air in the porch soothed his fury somewhat, although he noted as he lit his pipe that he his hands still shook with emotion. Oh, he knew exactly what _her_ problem was with him, he mused bitterly, but if she wanted to have it out about _that_ then at least she could have the decency to make it about _that_ , and not attempt to use him as a punching-bag every time she got in a pet over nothing. He would _not_ be spoken to like that, not by her, not by anyone, not any more. Taking a lungful of smoke, he tried to calm his breathing. How _dare_ she? Stuck up, idle bint with her fine linens and fancy Castille soaps and... Oh. The germ of a idea sprouted, and with it the heat of rage was transmuted to the cool of revenge. Yes, her fancy Castille soap, that she used to wash with every morning. Grubby paws, indeed. Moreover, he did still owe her a favour for the return of his shoes. A nasty little smirk played on his lips, only to be swiftly wiped away as Mrs Strange appeared in the doorway. The look on her face said that she had discovered whatever was the matter, and had come to Have A Word.

 

At dinner, Childermass offered a show of contrition, even going so far as to apologise to Miss Wintertowne for frightening her with his earlier outburst. Miss Wintertowne, with whom Mrs Strange had also Had A Word, in turn apologised for baiting him so, acknowledging that her jabs at him had been rather below the belt. As they sat down, things were peaceable. True, Mrs Strange still looked rather stern, and Mr Segundus and Vinculus wore expressions of nervousness and anticipation, respectively, at the prospect of further shots being fired between the warring parties, but dinner passed cordially. Cordially enough, in fact, that the only battle Childermass and Miss Wintertowne were drawn into was one of word-play, on the subject of waterfowl, which caused poor Mr Segundus to laugh his wine out of his nose, and Vinculus to announce he would eat the remainder of his dinner in the kitchen with the civilised people. All was, for once, calm.

 

The calm was shattered at about eight o'clock the next morning when a shriek erupted from Miss Wintertowne's dressing-room, followed by Miss Wintertowne errupting from Miss Windertowne's dressing room, still in her night-gown and dressing-gown, her white of skin of her face, neck, and hands pink with fury. Or at least, it would have been, had it not been stained mottled purple-black with India Ink. The shriek had drawn everyone out of their rooms in surprize, except for Childermass, who stood leaning against the bannister at the head of the stairs, nonchalantly examining his clean, trimmed fingernails, almost as if he had been waiting patiently for the outburst. Miss Wintertowne strode up to him, her mood as black as the offending ink; Childermass grinned his lopsided grin at her.

"You," she shouted, thrusting a finger at his face, "You unbearable, infuriating, underhand, devious..."

He caught her hand in his, giving her nails an appraising look. He tutted, "Standards are slipping, Miss Wintertowne."

She snatched back her hand as if she'd been stung, turned on her heels with a cry of "Augh!", and stomped off back to her dressing room, Childermass laughingly calling after her "Two all, Miss Wintertowne, two all!"

Mrs Strange took her head in her hands, and gave up.

 

She could not let this stand, of course, and the matter of reciprocation occupied Miss Wintertowne's mind for the remainder of the morning. Eventually, she hit on it: Childermass had called an editorial meeting for _The Famulus_ for two o'clock in the library; the library had two doors, one on the side of the study, from which Childermass would be most likely to enter, and one from the side of the hall; if she balanced a pail of water above the study-side door a little before the meeting, and exited by the hall-side door, then when Childermass entered the room, the filthy creature would be given his annual bath in front of everybody. She could not help but clap her hands with glee at the simple genius of it (and then glance furtively around, afraid that either Childermass would know she was up to something, or Mrs Strange would try and stop her; thankfully she was alone). She asked Pampisford to fetch her a pail; Pampisford declined, saying she had no desire to get mixed up in their nonsense, but as she was also rather aggrieved at Childermass for the ink-in-the-soap trick, she told Miss Wintertowne where to find a pail, and agreed to turn a blind eye. And so, at half-past-one, Miss Wintertowne found herself carefully positioning a pail of water above the study-side library door. This was not an easy task, for it was a rather tall door, but with the help of the library steps she achieved it without dampening herself. Stopping only briefly to admire her handiwork, she snook out of the hall-side door, and up the stairs to the landing to wait for her victim. However, no sooner had she reached the spot when there was a loud Clong!, and a higher-pitched, more refined yelp than she had been expecting. Oh _bugger_ , she thought (possibly out loud), counted to ten so as not to be too obvious that she had been just around the corner, and rushed into the library. Within stood a rather bewildered, slightly upset, and thoroughly soaking wet Mr Segundus, gazing ruefully at the pail.

"Oh John!" she exclaimed, "what ever has happened!"

Mr Segundus looked at her, then at the pail, then back at her, and sighed "Honestly, Emma, I have no idea."

Miss Wintertowne looked at the spreading puddle, rolled her eyes, and groaned, "Oh for goodness sake, _that man_!"

Mr Segundus looked at her quizzically, rubbing his bruised scalp.

"Well don't you see?" said Emma, earnestly, "Mr Childermass must have balanced that pail on the door-frame to give me a drenching when I came in for the meeting! He just can't give it up! Only he clearly hasn't thought through, because, well..." she gestured at Mr Segundus.

Mr Segundus looked perplexed, "Do you really think that Childermass would escalate like that?", he asked.

"Oh, absolutely. You saw what a vile temper he was in yesterday, and have you ever met anyone else so bloody-minded?"

Mr Segundus considered this a while. It seemed a little odd that Childermass would continue to torment Miss Wintertowne after his victory this morning, but she did have a point that he was not one to let an insult go easily. Still, he must have looked uneasy at the idea, because them Miss Wintertowne added,

"I've been sat with Pampisford in the parlour all morning."

 Seeing no reason why Miss Wintertowne would lie to him on the matter, or who else would have set the trap, Mr Segundus had to submit to her conclusion.

At that moment, Charles came into the room to say that Mr Childermass was having something of a breakthrough decoding the King's Letters, and had requested the meeting be postponed until the next day. Miss Wintertowne and Mr Segundus concurred as one voice that this was quite well with them. Charles, meanwhile, looked at his master's wet clothes, and at the wet floor, and the pail, rubbed his eyes wearily, and announced he that he would go and fetch a mop.

Once Charles was departed, Miss Wintertowne gave Mr Segundus a serious look, "You're not going to let Childermass get away with this, I hope?"

Mr Segundus bit his lip; to be honest, that was exactly what he had been planning on doing, but he did feel a dreadful fool for it.

Miss Wintertowne tutted, and shook her head, "This is your problem, John, you're too nice." Then gave him a conspiratorial smile, and, taking him by the arm, said "I have an idea. Do you still have any of that Chinese powder from New Year?"


	4. Chapter 4

John Segundus was aware of his failings, painfully so at times, but he was quite sure that Miss Wintertowne had been unfair in describing being too nice as among them. He felt, with a reasonable degree of certainty, that he gave as good as he got when occasion warranted; it was just that he felt occasion warranted it rather less than she did. He still wasn't  entirely sure whether yesterday's soaking counted as warranting it, but it was too late to back out now.The small bag of Chinese powder, designed to be sprinkled into the fire on festive occasions to produce a gay display of coloured sparks and crackles, had been burning a hole in his pocket[1] since yesterday afternoon, as he waited for opportunity to avenge himself. What would have been a fair description of a failing, he realised, was that he was very poor at disguising his emotions, and that right now his emotions were oscillating wildly between acute anxiety, and pre-emptive guilt. He knew it shew upon his face, because now, as he sat late into the evening in the study with Childermass, his companion kept shooting him puzzled, then concerned glances. Eventually, Childermass spoke, "Are you well, Mr Segundus? You seem a little discomfited."

Mr Segundus gave him a weak smile, and tried to busy himself with his paperwork, "Yes, yes, quite well, er, nothing at all to worry about. Definitely quite well." There was no way he had gotten away with it, he thought, Childermass must be on to him.

Instead, to his surprize, Childermass looked rather abashed. "Look, John," he said softly, leaning over the desk to put a hand on Mr Segundus's forearm, "I'm sorry I lost my rag with Miss Wintertowne the other day. And I am very, very sorry if I frightened you in the process." He sighed. "She just has this knack for getting under my skin, thick as it is. I hope you know I would never shout at you like that?"

Relief flooded through Mr Segundus, he _had_ gotten away with it. By the same measure, he did now feel rather more guilty for what he was planning on doing, but that, he felt, was another matter. He patted Childermass's hand with his free one, saying "Think no more of it, Childermass. Yes, you did frighten me a little at the time, but I do recognise the very particular circumstances of the incident. I know you would not shout at me, unless I gave you exceptionally good reason to."

Childermass sat back, withdrawing his hand, and gave one of those rare, genuine smiles that seemed to soften his whole look, simply saying, "Good". The matter being concluded, he produced his pipe and tobacco pouch from a coat pocket, and began to prepare it to smoke. At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and when invited, Charles stepped in, begging a few moments from Mr Childermass to _assist_ him with Vinculus. Childermass followed him with a groan of "Oh what's he done now?"

Mr Segundus looked at the pipe, left innocently on the desk, and swallowed hard. This was his chance. Only, now, thinking about it, did he really want to give Childermass good reason to shout at him? But then, could he face Miss Wintertowne if he didn't? Her assessment of _too nice_ weighed heavy on him, and he did still have a bump on his head from the pail. Voices in the corridor alerted him that his window of opportunity was running out; it was now or never. Quickly, he took up the pipe, loosened the tobacco, sprinkled in a few grains of powder, and tamped the tobacco back down. He replaced the pipe in it's former position, and got back to his papers just in time as Childermass returned.

"So, what has Vinculus done now?" he enquired, as Childermass flopped down into the chair opposite.

"Nowt much, just annoying the scullery maid again, and then annoying everyone else when told to stop it." He took the stem of his pipe into his mouth, and lit the bowl.

There was an almighty POP!, and a shower of green sparks burst forth from the bowl of the pipe, causing Childermass to leap to his feet, flinging it away from him, and emitting a tirade of decidedly nautical language. A shocked silence descended on the room. And then Mr Segundus began to laugh. He did not stop laughing. When Childermass turned a look of wide-eyed accusation on him, he laughed even harder, until tears rolled from his eyes.

Childermass rolled his eyes, "Oh God, not you as well?" he groaned, covering his face with his hands, "Did this place ever _stop_ being a madhouse?"

 

Tho' Childermass was loathe to admit it, Mr Segundus's entry into the fray had dismayed him somewhat. While he was forced to concede that Miss Wintertowne had a longer history of conviviality with Mr Segundus, he had the longer history with him outright, and he had hoped this might have counted towards some sense of loyalty. He had always harboured a fondness for the younger magician, and, since circumstance had caused them to put aside their differences and work together as colleagues, he had begun to think that perhaps that fondness was reciprocated. Alas, it seemed that without any apparent provocation on his behalf, when Mr Segundus had condescended to chewse a side, he had chosen against Childermass, and for his tormentor. Very well, concluded Childermass, drawing up his injured pride, if that is how he wanted to align himself, have at him. And so, early the next morning, he was to be found upon the landing, quietly tying a length of rope between the door-handles of Miss Wintertowne's bedroom, and the door-handle of Mr Segundus's bedroom, which lay more-or-less opposite. It was not a sophisticated trick, school-boy mischief at best, but Childermass was a habitually early riser, and had calculated that with the element of surprize, and the befuddlement associated with the early hour, it ought cause the optimum of confusion and annoyance to his targets, with a minimum of effort for himself. A warning shot, of sorts. Barely suppressing a fit of the giggles, Childermass took up a walking stick in one hand, an umbrella in the other, so as to reach both sides at once, and gave a sharp rap on the doors. Mr Segundus reached his door first, tugging it open only to exclaim "What the...?" as the rope pulled taught. This was followed with an "I say!" as the door was pulled from his grip by Miss Wintertowe endeavouring to open _her_ door. As she found her exit curtailed, she gave a wordless cry of alarm, followed by an infuriated "Hey!" as her door was once more slammed shut by Mr Segundus attempting to free himself. Childermass allowed himself to enjoy this exchange for several minutes, as it continued with increasingly vocal frustration and dismay, before he sauntered away whistling, the his captives cursing his name as he went.

 

Sadly for Mr Childermass, he was not to have the last laugh that morning, for while he had been ensconced in the study with Mr Segundus the night before, Miss Wintertowne had had an industrious evening. He made for the front door, for the rain had stopt and he had business elsewhere to attend do, catching his greatcoat from the hook where it customarily hung on the way past. With habitual ease and grace, he swung it about his shoulders, but as his right hand reached the cuff, it came to a sudden and unexpected dead-end. Unfortunately, a combination of momentum and his body not catching up with his mind in time, meant that he could not prevent his left arm from extending and meeting a similar dead-end until it was too late. This abrupt curtailing of his movement, combined with the moving weight of the fabric, caused Childermass to stumble, almost knocking into Mrs Strange, who had also risen early to visit her friend Miss Greysteel. Mrs Strange, having steadied herself, looked at Childermass all of a tangle in his greatcoat. Mrs Strange became sensible of the commotion upstairs. Mrs Strange closed her eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. Mr Childermass knew he was in trouble.

 

Once everyone had been released from their bondage, the warring parties were summoned to the breakfast room by a very stern Mrs Strange. She gave them a short speech on how unhappy she was with their behaviour of late, and that, as grown adults, she expected better from all of them. She did not care who had started it, at this moment, she was finishing it, before somebody was injured. Despite her customarily mild and gentle persona, Mrs Strange could be a formidable woman when she chose to be (a necessary skill in having been married to Mr Strange), and she extracted from each of them an agreement that this would be the end of the pranks, with little protest. Having secured their submission, Mrs Strange announced that she would be at Halifax for a few days, visiting her friend, and that if on her return there was any indication of ongoing silly behaviour, she would be sorely disappointed.

Mrs Strange was to be sorely disappointed.

* * *

 

 

[1]Figuratively, that is to say, although the possibility of it becoming literally had been quite a concern. 


	5. Chapter 5

Licking his finger, Mr Segundus carefully daubed the final sigil onto the corridor wall, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Not that there was a great deal to admire, mind you - there had been a slight, momentary refraction of the light when the sigil had been completed - but that was largely the point. Cautiously, he pressed his outstretched fingers into the seemingly empty air space before him. They met with an elastic resistance, almost like bread dough, but silky-velvety in texture, and slightly warm; not entirely unpleasant, in fact. He continued to press his hand forward, the resistance grew, became firmer, until after a foot or so he could push no further, and resistance beginning to repel him. That, he thought, would do nicely. He was still rather conflicted about why he was doing this particular piece of magic, but it was a rather fine piece of magic none the less.

After Mrs Strange had departed for Halifax, and after Childermass had departed to do whatever business he had, Miss Wintertowne had taken him aside, and expressed that while disappointing Mrs Strange was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, she also felt it was terribly unfair that Childermass should be awarded the final point in this contest. Mr Segundus, not having seen the incident with the coat, had to agree. He had still been rather cross about the business with the doors this morning; being confined like that was something he particularly hated. They had concluded that they would give Childermass one last parting gift, to show they were not to be trifled with, but that it would need to be subtle, and cause no mess nor injury that would alert Mrs Strange to their disobedience. A little while after they had parted company, to ponder their next move, Mr Segundus had recalled that he had been meaning to give Stokesey's Glassless Window a whirl for a while, and here was a perfectly serviceable excuse. Now all he had to do was secrete himself about a suitable vantage point, and hope he didn't have to wait too long.

 

Indeed, not long after Mr Segundus had completed his spell, Childermass returned to Starecross in a much better mood than he had left. His visit to the rare-book seller in Coffee-yard had been most promising: Mr Thoroughgood had been in contact with a Portuguese gentleman, who had in his possession some half-dozen books he believed to have been left in his villa during the war by Mr Strange. Although they did not have titles yet, for the Portuguese gentleman did not have good English and was working through and interpreter, Childermass had been able to confirm through a rubbing of the crest embossed on the books, that they did indeed originate from the library at Hurtfew. The book seller, who was both sympathetic to English magic, and had long held Childermass in good regard, was to negotiate a good price for the books, and they were likely to be returned to Yorkshire within the month. Opening a letter he had been handed by Charles on his way in, Childermass strode briskly towards the study. He hit the spell like a bird colliding with a plate-glass window - so much so that Mr Segundus half expected there to be a dusty, Childermass-shaped imprint upon the air - bouncing off it an falling on his backside, gasping, and clutching his forehead. Horrified, Mr Segundus rushed to him, babbling apologies and solicitations as to Childermass's well-being. From his position sprawled on the floor, Childermass looked at him dazedly, then to the offending space in the air, then back to Mr Segundus's guilt stricken face.

"Was that... Was that _you_?" he demanded, bewildered.

Mr Segundus felt a little sick. He could see now that there was a split in his friend's eyebrow, a smudge of blood around it. He absolutely deserved to be shouted at now. He nodded silently.

It seemed that Childermass was still too dazed to do much shouting, for instead he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, and leant against the wall, crossing his arms and looking perplexed. "Forgive me for asking," he said, "but precisely which part of Mrs Strange's speech about no more pranks did you fail to comprehend? I was under the distinct impression a truce had been declared."

Mr Segundus stared resolutely at the floor, feeling his face burn with shame. At that moment, he suspected he would rather have been shouted at. "I am so sorry," he said at last, "it was wrong of me. Only, Emma and I, we felt that it was rather unfair that you should have the last laugh. If it hadn't have been me, it would have been her."

Childermass rolled his eyes, and gave a little laugh of "that girl" to no-one in particular. He gave Mr Segundus an pat on the shoulder, "Why on earth did you get mixed up in this, John, eh? It was between me and her. That bloody hurt, you know."

Feeling he was being rather patronised, Mr Segundus retorted defiantly, "Well so did that pail."

Childermass quirked an eyebrow, and winced as it stung, "What pail?"

"The pail of water you balanced over the library door. It hit me, not Emma."

Childermass cocked his head, the line between his brows becoming more pronounced.

And then the realisation struck Mr Segundus as hard as the pail had, "I've been played for a fool, haven't I?"

"You might well have been, yes."

Mr Segundus took his head in his hands, a strangled wail of despair escaping his clenched teeth. "Why must I be such an awful ninny sometimes?"

Childermass bit his top lip, as if biting back a teasing comment, and instead said "Now come on, don't do yourself down. You're a good, trusting person, John Segundus, and Miss Wintertowne is your friend. If she said I had set the trap, why should you not trust your friend to speak truthfully to you, as you speak truthfully to your friends?"

Mr Segundus nodded, although still feeling like an awful ninny. "I suppose so," he said, "but look here, Childermass, you're my friend too, and now I've done you an injury. Oh! I want no more of this rotten business! Can you ever forgive me?"

"Least said, soonest mended, Mr Segundus", Childermass returned with a lop-sided smile, "You were drawn into this mess by deceit, which was daft, but I can forgive it. But you might want to have a little chat with Miss Wintertowne on the subject, eh?" With that, he turned back to the space before them, and gently pressed his hand into it, as Mr Segundus had done earlier. He raised his eyebrows, gave an appraising little nod, and withdrew his hand. "Stokesey?"

"It is, yes... I, ah, I had not known about the variation in solidity depending on the force with which it was struck. There's no mention of it in the literature."

Childermass shot him a sardonic look, "Evidently." He gave the spell a firm blow with the side of his fist; his hand recoiled as if striking something hard. Childermass grinned, "Very nice. You'll have to teach me."

Mr Segundus beamed, "Oh, it would be my absolute pleasure!", but then he frowned, "We should get you a cold-compress for your brow, first, though."

 

Miss Wintertowne sat upon the little stone bench in the kitchen garden, thinking. The weather was fine since the rain had stopt, but there was an autumnal chill on the air now that had not been there before, and she wrapt her shawl more closely about her. She felt she had something akin to writers block, as far as pranks were concerned; for all her consideration, nothing came to her. Nothing that fulfilled the requirement of subtlety, at any rate. Crunching footsteps on the gravel path alerted her to Mr Segundus's approach. Her heart sank a little at his expression; his brows were knitted, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. He did not sit down.

"That was a low thing you did to me the other day, Emma," he said.

Miss Wintertowne attempted to rearrange her features into a picture of innocence. She had never been very practised in that.

"I know now it was you who set the trap in the library," he continued, suddenly raising a palm as if to fend off any response, "and I do not want to hear any protestations to the contrary. I will not hold your subsequent deception against you, as we all panic and say silly things when caught off-guard. However, I am formally removing myself from play. I have unintentionally done Mr Childermass an injury because of this ridiculous game and I want no further part in it."

"You did Mr Childermass an injury?"

Mr Segundus looked away, reddening slightly about the ears, "I, ah, I set Stokesey's Glassless Window across a hallway. He walked into it. It was rather more solid than I had anticipated."

"Oh," she said, with an air of contrition, "Oh, dear, well. If that is the case, then I do apologise for drawing you into this, John. I will respect your conscience and involve you no more."

This seemed to satisfy Mr Segundus, for he said, "Thank you, Emma," gave her a little bow, and walked back towards the house.

Miss Wintertowne sat in silence for some time, looking troubled. She had, she realised, been a terrible fool. How could she not have seen that things would escalate this way?

_Why had she not thought to use magic first?_


	6. Chapter 6

In truth, Childermass rather hoped that this would be the end of the ongoing hostilities. They were becoming rather tedious, not to mention a distraction from his work, and so he conceited to let the matter drop. He did not trust Miss Wintertowne in the slightest to behave the same, of course, and so for the rest of the day he proceeded about the house with a degree more cautiousness than usual. This being Mr Childermass, his behaviour made the entire staff very nervous indeed. He even considered casting Scopus, on occasion, but in the end decided against, as he felt no more magic in the house than the ordinary, background hum that perfused Starecross Hall as a matter of course. The remainder of the day passed off largely without incident [1]. Still, he remained unconvinced that this was the end of it. Moreover, he remained unconvinced that Mr Segundus had actually spoken with Miss Wintertowne, and if so, that she would honour his desire for neutrality. It still rankled that she had attempted to set Mr Segundus against him. He resolved to speak to her himself, the next morning, firstly to petition on his friend's behalf, and secondly to try to broker some lasting truce between them all.

The next day, he discovered her alone in the parlour, sat in the sunny window seat, engaged with her embroidery. He rapped gently on the door-frame to draw her attention, and said, "Miss Wintertowne, did Mr Segundus speak with you yesterday, about his withdrawal from our game?"

"He did," she replied, not looking up, "and in truth I feel a little bad for drawing the poor, innocent creature into it." She finally looked at him, pursing her lips when her eyes rested upon the scab and the purple bruise on his brow, "That looks sore."

"It is sore. Look, Miss Wintertowne," he said, his tone conciliatory, "let's call this business a day. I have quite lost track as to who has the upper hand over whom now. The whole business is getting ridiculous, and it's distressing other people."

She gave him a supercilious smirk, "Very well, if you are conceding defeat..."

"I do not concede defeat at all," he retorted, "I am proposing a ceasefire. If you cannot bring yourself to stop for my sake, which is fair enough, then I ask you to stop for the sake of Mr Segundus, Mrs Strange, and the staff. They have to live here too."

She considered this for a moment, before going back to her embroidery, saying only, "Very well."

"Good," said Childermass, picking a fresh, juicy-looking apple from the fruitbowl, "Glad we got that sorted."

Before he could take a bite, Miss Wintertowne mused, "Very clever of Mr Segundus, reconstructing the spell for Glassless Window like that."

Childermass could not help but smile fondly, "It was a bit, wasn't it?" Turning to leave, he bit into the apple, and immediately spat it out with a roaring "Augh!" of disgust. In his hand, the fresh, juicy-looking apple had transformed into an old, mouldy-looking onion. Hilarity erupted from the window seat behind him. Why, Miss Wintertowne was laughing so hard that she barely had the wherewithal to dodge when the onion was flung at her.

 

The onion had left a bad taste in Childermass's mouth in more ways than one. He had gone to her in good faith to reconcile their differences, and it had been thrown it back in his face. She seemed quite determined to hate him. He supposed that to an extent he deserved that; the injury that had been done to her would not - _should not_ \- be forgotten easily, and he had had a part in it. By the same token, however, he felt he also deserved recognition for his part in her recovery; oh, he was not so conceited as to expect gratitude, but he was due a little respect, at least. Certainly he deserved better than to be treated like an interloper to be run off from the household. Yet she had decided to set herself against him, and if that was how she wanted to proceed, so be it. Besides, he refused to be bested at magic by the little hellion. So he plotted, and he waited.

Nearly a full day passed before he could act. Mr Segundus proposed a turn about the park, to enjoy what might be the last of the fine weather, and Miss Wintertowne agreed to join him. Childermass made his excuses, claiming to be to occupied with his correspondences, but as soon as the coast was clear he made his way to landing. First, he checked Miss Wintertowne's room: it was made up, and Pampisford had a day of leisure, so he was safe from disturbance. He set to work. Now, it is beyond doubt that Mr Norrell had been the architect of the labyrinth at Hurtfew, but an understanding of De Chepe's spell had been essential to Childermass's ability to navigate it. The art of redirecting the portal from one part of the property to another, unconnected, part of the property was one with which he was intimately familiar. Still, as it had been a while since he had had need of it, he thought it wise to test it. Tearing a sheet of paper from his memorandum pad, he screwed it up, and tossed it through the door. It did not land upon the floor of Miss Wintertowne's room. As unobtrusively as he could, Childermass gave chase via a more mundane route. He found the ball of paper exactly where he had expected it to be. Childermass sauntered back to the house, smiling his lopsided smile all the way. Now all he had to do was bide his time.

Around an hour later, Childermass heard the creak of the front door, voices in the hall, and then light footsteps upon the stairs[2]. He checked his watch to mark the time, and casually made his way to the front hall, to make conversation with Mr Segundus. Mr Segundus was overjoyed to discover that they now had titles for the Portuguese books, but before he could enquire what they were, the front door was violently thrown open. Miss Wintertowne entered, straw in her hair, sawdust and horse-dung on her dress, and murder in her eye. The pattern of filth that besmirched her gown suggested strongly that she had fallen flat on her face, on her unexpected arrival in the muck-heap. In spite of all his practised nonchalance, there was no way on earth Childermass could remain sanguine at the sight of such a vision, and laughter overtook him. As Miss Wintertowne strode, with furious purpose, towards him, he became sensible to the notion that this time he may in fact be for it, and he made to beat a retreat via a nearby patch of deep shadow. Before the darkness could enfold him, however, Mr Segundus had grasped him by the front of his coat, say, "Oh no, you stay and take the beating you _entirely_ deserve like a man."

Fortunately, or perhaps not, before Miss Wintertowne could round on him, there was an incensed cry of "What. On. Earth?!" from the direction of the door. The trio froze, like hares in a hunter's lamplight. Mrs Strange had returned. Her face was like thunder.

 

* * *

 

[1]The only incident of note, as it happened, was a quarrel between Vinculus and one of the footmen: the former was attempting to _assist_ the latter in picking the first of the season's apples from the little orchard; the latter had become quite irate when he realised that more of the apples were going into the former than the trug.

[2]Regardless of the magic that permeated it, age, and historical neglect had rendered Starecross Hall a rather noisy house, constantly in complaining conversation with itself, and it's environs. For the most part, the awareness this gave the residents on where their companions were was a balm on the nerves, but the occasional suggestion of footsteps where nobody could be was quite unsettling.


	7. Chapter 7

The humiliation of being dropped in the stables' muck-heap would not go unanswered, Miss Wintertowne was certain of that. But she was also quite sensible of how unhappy Mrs Strange was at the carryings on of the last few weeks, and had no wish to incur her friend's displeasure soon. She would take her time, let the dust settle, and strike when that ill-bred, ill-favoured villain Childermass least expected it. Meanwhile, she would channel her energy into other occupations.

One would have to be quite naive to assume that Miss Wintertowne's death, resurrection, and subsequent persecution would have caused no lasting sequelae after her release from enchantment. Indeed, the most dramatic of these effects was that, having been restored to life by magic, magic seemed to have become embedded in the fabric of her very being. By consequence, she had - much to her initial horror - gained an almost preternatural, instinctual ability for magic (one might even say a fairy-like ability, if one did not value one's life too highly), albeit not always under her conscious control. A curious outcome of this was that, in the early days of her release, at times of strong emotion she would find herself levitating off the ground. This was particularly notable at times of interpersonal conflict, where she seemed to be raising herself up to better stare her opponent down. Unfortunately, because this was not a conscious activity, as soon as attention was drawn to the fact, the spell would be broken and she would fall. This was less of a problem versus someone of, say, Foxcastle's stature, but something of a hazard when she was in dispute with Childermass, and she was often in dispute with Childermass. She had, therefore, swiftly learned to master this trait with discipline and mindfulness, and now remained firmly on terra firma however vexed she was. To her disappointment, though, it had proved less easy to achieve the opposite effect, that is, to levitate at will. It was with this task she now chose to occupy herself.

Approximately one week from the enforced cessation of hostilities, Mr Segundus found himself being called into the parlour as he passed it, by a cry of "John! John! Come and look at this!". Within, Miss Wintertowne, beaming with pride, hovered about three feet off the ground, a little unsteadily but quite deliberately. At the sight of this, he gave a cry of delight and clapped his hands, this was marvellous. For a happy hour, they explored the present limits of her ability; she could not move beyond the vertical, and no more than another foot higher before she lost her balance, but she could float upon her back as a swimmer would. This newfound power, alas, transpired to be rather fatiguing, and soon they were forced to stop. Mr Segundus felt that they should share the discovery forthwith, but Miss Wintertowne said that she would prefer to get some practice of it first, lest she find herself unable to perform, or worse, over-stretch herself and do herself a mischief. Agreeing that this was the most rational course of action, they conspired to keep it their secret for the time being. None the less, that night after she had retired, Miss Wintertowne allowed herself to levitate once more, for the pure glee of it. She caught sight of herself in the mirror; hanging there in her night-dress, with her hair loose, in the semi-darkness, she looked rather eerie. She let her limbs become slack, and her head loll to one side. She slightly raised her arms before her, wrists limp, and gave a quiet moan of "ooooh". She tittered, and nearly lost her balance. She had another one of her Bad Ideas coming on.

 

It has been observed that Childermass was an habitually early riser. He was also very much in the habit of being late to bed. In fact, and much to the consternation of his friends, he seemed to be rather bad at sleeping all together. At first, his nocturnal perambulations caused a degree of distress to the residents of Starecross Hall. This soon transmuted to comfort, however, as they could be reasonably sure that any bumps and creaks in the night were most likely Mr Childermass, and Mr Childermass was known to be the most sinister thing in the building. Miss Wintertowne was particularly aware of Childermass's night-time customs, for she herself was also rather bad at sleeping. These were, perhaps, their most companionable moments: when the wind was up, and the moon was full, and bad dreams plagued her with distant music, she would take herself to the study, and sit reading her book while he got on with whatever occupied him, minding their own business in quiet company.

It did not take long for one of these evenings, when Childermass was abroad after all others had gone to bed, to present itself. Carefully, quietly, she positioned herself in the middle of the main stair-case. Over her head, she draped a length of sheer muslin, hoping that the dribble of raspberry-jam she had daubed from her mouth to chin looked sufficiently visible, and bloody, in this light. She gave the stair a deliberate squeak, and groaned, hoping that the sound was loud enough to garner her target's attention, but not wake the sleepers above. Nothing happened. She groaned again, and this time she heard the study door open, and shut. Now there were footsteps in the corridor. She willed herself to rise, and dangled, limbs lifelessly slack, head lolled against her breast, tongue protruding, waiting.

Childermass screamed.

It was less a deliberate descent, and more a barely-controlled tumble that returned Miss Wintertowne to the step, where she collapsed, shaking with silent laughter. How ridiculous he looked to her, pinned to the wall like a great, dark moth, eyes wide, face as pale as the moon. She could hear his breath coming in irregular, trembling pants - oh, she had got him good this time! She had to stuff her fist into her mouth to prevent herself from waking the whole household up, her hilarity was so great. Childermass did not move, but remained pressed against the wall, staring mutely into space, shivering as if he had been drenched in ice-water. A light from the top of the stairs, and Mr Segundus saying "I say, is everyone all right?", broke his trance. Childermass darted up the stairs like a scolded cat, shoving roughly past Mr Segundus on his way to his own room. Mr Segundus looked down on Miss Wintertowne, now prostrate with mirth upon the stair, and sighed deeply. He hoisted her up, as best he could, as she battled to calm her laughter, hissing "Oh for goodness sake." This only served to make her start laughing again. Now Mrs Strange appeared on the landing, half asleep, "What's going on?", she yawned.

"Nothing," said Mr Segundus brightly, through gritted teeth, "just our midnight ramblers giving each other a start."

Mrs Strange, who was evidently barely awake at all, merely nodded at this and gave a sleepy noise of assent, before shuffling off back to her bed.

"Honestly, Emma," whispered Mr Segundus sharply, as he all but frog-marched the still-giggling Miss Wintertowne to her room, "don't make me have to bloody restrain you again."


	8. Chapter 8

The sun had barely risen, and mist hung low over the lawn, when Vinculus ambled into the stables. In the warm, hay-scented gloom, he found Childermass preparing for travel.

"So," he said cheerfully, scratching Brewer behind the ear, "where are we off to at sparrows-fart?"

Childermass ignored him, occupied with fitting his horse's saddle.

"I said, where are we off to?" Vinculus went to tap Childermass on the head with one grubby, spindly finger, only to have it crossly batted away.

" _We_ are not off anywhere, Vinculus," growled Childermass, still not taking his attention from his preparations, " _you_ remain at liberty to annoy scullery maids to your heart's content."

"So where are you going, then?"

Childermass stopped, and finally looked up at him, " _I_ am going... I'm going _away_ for a bit, to get some peace and quiet. If you must know."

Vinculus studied his friend with unease; Childermass looked pale and haggard, his eyes red and sore, the scar on his cheek uncommonly livid. He did not look _well_ , Vinculus thought, quite uncharacteristically so in fact. On consideration, the last time Vinculus had seen him look that _unwell_ , he realised, was in February. This was concerning.

Leaning on Brewers withers, Vinculus spoke gently, "Are you all right, mate?"

"I am quite well Vinculus," retorted Childermass sharply, returning to better adjust Brewer's tack.

"Because you don't look all right..."

"Don't you have a scullery maid to be annoying, Vinculus?" snapped Childermass, shooting him a vicious glare.

From many years of experience, Vinculus knew when he was not wanted.

 

When Vinculus wandered into the breakfast room some hours later, the reception he received was a great deal warmer. Mrs Strange remarked that they had not expected to see him, as Charles had informed them that Mr Childermass had taken his leave for some days. The assumption had been that Vinculus would be with him.

"Nah," said Vinculus, helping himself to a piece of toast on his way to a seat, "He's gone off in a huff, said he wanted some _peace and quiet_ , wouldn't tell me why." He flopped down next to Mrs Strange, shoving the toast into his mouth, "Dunno what's rattled the mardy old bugger's cage," he continued, spraying toast crumbs, "he was even more full of piss and vinegar than usual. Looked like shit, too."

Mr Segundus gave Miss Wintertowne a pointed look across his breakfast. She kicked him under the table, muttering "I couldn't possibly think," into her tea.

 

As the day grew on, Miss Wintertowne's conscience began to trouble her. Last night, Childermass's reaction to her trick had been the funniest thing in the world; the more she thought on it, the less she was convinced of it. That scream, she considered, had been quite unlike the startled yelp when she had tickled his foot. Nor had it been the stream of profanities Mr Segundus had reported after the exploding pipe. It had been, she realised, a scream of absolute, mortal terror. This was realisation was disconcerting; Childermass was not afraid of anything. That was the point of Childermass. Things were afraid of him. She resolved to talk to consult the Magician of Threadneedle-street. If anyone in their company knew the Reader, it was the Book.

She found Vinculus lounging under an apple tree, his hat pulled over his eyes; she seated herself on the turf next to him.

"I have a confession to make..." she began.

"Best talk to a priest then," said Vinculus, unhelpfully, not moving. She ignored his impudence.

"I believe Mr Childermass's unhappiness may be my fault," she continued.

This, at least, piqued Vinculus's interest, for he sat up and pulled off his hat, "Oh really?" he leered.

Miss Wintertowne rolled her eyes, "Not like that. Honestly! No, I believe a trick I played on him has gone sour," and with this, she proceeded to explain the events of the night before. As she explained, Vinculus's face morphed from amusement, to concern, to dismay. He sat for some time, biting his lip, as if considering how to broach some particularly ticklish subject.

"Miss Wintertowne," he said at last, "how much do you know about Mr Childermass's murky past?"

This seemed like an odd question to her, and she began to recount that he had been Mr Norrell's man, and that been such for a very long time, but Vinculus cut her off.

"Before Norrell."

To her surprize, Miss Wintertowne realised she had never really considered a _before Norrell_. The notion of Mr Childermass existing _before Norrell_ seemed curiously absurd, but she supposed he must have done.

"Mr Childermass did not have the happiest of childhoods, to put it lightly," said Vinculus, "Him and his mum, they had nothing. Had to steal to survive. He saw her hang for it when he was twelve years old."

Miss Wintertowne gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.

"So yes," continued Vinculus, "I imagine that the apparition of a young woman, with a shroud over her head, apparently hanged by the neck until dead, would have given him quite a turn."

"Oh god, what have I done?" Miss Wintertowne groaned through her fingers.

"Ah, you weren't to know," said Vinculus, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "He'll be all right. Give him a few days to sulk, he'll come slinking back pretending like none of this ever happens. That's what he does." With this, he settled back down at the base of the tree.

"Should I apologise?" she asked, stricken with shame.

"That," said Vinculus, pulling his hat back over his eyes, "is between you and your conscience."

 

The weight of this new intelligence sat heavy with Miss Wintertowne. She was not insensible of the agony of losing a parent: why, she herself had lost her father at the age of seventeen, practically an adult, and that still caused her sorrow; no doubt to lose a mother at such a tender age, in such an horrific way, must leave a scar. (The association of _scars_ and _Childermass_ caused an additional weight of guilt to lay anchor in her breast.) Oh, she had not meant to hurt him so! This, she realised wearily, was something of a lie. She _had_ meant to hurt him. Even before the initiating incident with the paintbrush, she had meant to punish him for... For what? Certainly, he was untidy, and this vexed her, but he was no more untidy than Vinculus, whom she did not find bothersome in the least (and in truth, it was only recently with the pooling of all their funds that her dear Mr Segundus had afforded to look properly respectable). Yes, he was plain-spoken to the point of brusqueness, and had an exceptionally dry sense of humour, yet his infamous insolence was only directed against her when she had deliberately sought to publicly humiliate him. Although far from being a perfect gentleman, he had treated her, and their household, with kindness and respect. And yet, despite all this, she still harboured such fury and hatred for him!

In the wake of her new-found compassion towards her nemesis, came a comprehending of her own feelings. She hung her head in shame: oh! she had been such an arse.

 

A few days later, Vinculus's prediction was proved correct. No one was entirely sure when Childermass had returned to Starecross Hall, only that at around three o'clock, Davey had discovered Brewer groomed and fed in his stable, and that around seven o'clock, Lucas had taken word to the kitchen that Mr Childermass would take his dinner in the study. When news of his return, and subsequent seclusion, reached the party, Mr Segundus, with characteristic sensitivity, suggested that they permit Childermass his privacy, and that he would rejoin them in his own time. Miss Wintertowne, having endured days of her own conflicted feelings with no release, had no such noble patience. As soon as her friends had settled at a game of cards after dinner, she slipped away to seek him out.

With no little trepidation, she knocked at the study door; her courage nearly failed her when this was met by a gruff bark of "Come!". Stepping lightly inside, she saw Childermass, his back to the door, leaning against a book shelf, studying some volume. He did not look up. His dinner sat uneaten upon the desk.

Steeling herself, she spoke as calmly as she could manage, despite her heart beating in her throat, "I owe you an apology." His shoulders stiffened at the sound of her voice, but she continued, "I understand that I touched upon a very sore subject with my last prank and I..."

"You weren't to know," he cut her off, matter-of-factly.

"Perhaps not, but the matter still remains that I did you a far more serious injury than all the bumps and bruises we have caused each other the past weeks, and I am sorry for it."

His shoulders sagged, no longer the imposing figure of her imagination, "Miss Wintertowne..." he began, weary and sad.

"And I believe that is not the only thing I owe you an apology for," she pressed on, afraid that if she stopped she would never say what needed to be said, "I have behaved abominably towards you since you joined our household last year. I have been hateful and cruel and I wish to put an end to that behaviour. If you would have it, sir, I should like to call you my friend."

Now, at last, Childermass put down the book he’d been holding, and turned to face her. She could not interpret his look, he seemed at once bewildered, wary, and yet relieved at her statement.

“Your friend?”

“Yes, if I may, your friend, although I will settle for not enemies at least,” she gave an involuntary, hiccoughing laugh of relief for having said it, “You still vex me, you understand, you are a frustrating man, but I… I have been very wrong about you, and have treated you unfairly. I was so angry at you, I hated you for so long, for your part in my misery, and I held on to that anger and hatred for so long because Norrell is not here to hate for it, but…" A great well of emotion sprang forth from within her, tears coming against her will, "But I do not want to hate you any more..." Whatever she had meant to say next was drowned with her sobs.  


Childermass had, as she gave her speech, moved closer, cautious as if he were not sure his proximity would be welcomed, "Miss Wintertowne, you had every reason to hate me...", he said.

She shook her head, drying her eyes on her shawl and attempting to regain her composure, "No, you did what you could once you understood my predicament. Even before you understood; you placed me in safety with friends when you could have had me hanged, or worse, sent to Bedlam, for heaven's sake! Let alone going against your master to restore me! And yet I have repaid you with nothing but antipathy." Despite her efforts, she began to cry again, "Oh, can you forgive me!" she wailed.

Now Childermass was before her, stooped so as to bring himself level, "Now then, lass," he said, with gentleness she did not expect, "As I told Mr Segundus recently, least said, soonest mended. I accept your apology, and your understanding. Let us go forward together, then, you and I, and see what good we can do with it." He offered her a handkerchief, she threw her arms around his waist in a sisterly embrace. The embrace seemed to startle Childermass somewhat, but, nevertheless, he returned it without complaint. 

"I'll tell you what," he said at last, "that levitation trick is bloody impressive. You'll have to show me it properly some time, when you're not trying to scare the crap out of me."

Miss Wintertowne nodded against the soft, worn wool of his waistcoat, curiously aware that there was not a lot of Childermass under all those layers, "I shall, I promise. But perhaps not tonight? I'm rather tired and think I shall retire soon."

"Very well," said Childermass, releasing her. He was smiling now, not his usual, lopsided, mocking smile, she realised, but one that was warm and genuine. Miss Wintertowne thought it made him look younger somehow, more human. "Good night, Emma," he said.

Now it was her turn to smile, "Good night, John."

 

After Miss Wintertowne retired for the night, Childermass ventured to join Mrs Strange and Mr Segundus in the drawing-room, where he was given a warm and affectionate welcome. However, no sooner had the pleasantries concluded, when Mr Segundus remarked "I say, Childermass, what's that on your back?" Reaching behind himself, Childermass discovered that there was indeed a note pinned to him, written in Miss Wintertowne's slopping handwriting. What it said was _Hex Me_ ; he could not help but laugh.


End file.
